


if you need me (i’ll be right there)

by dysabria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Blood, Not Beta Read, Panic Attacks, Scott McCall Loves Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Loves Scott McCall, and it’s only mentioned, anyway i love them, no beta we die like allison, the canonical character death is just allison, to some extent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysabria/pseuds/dysabria
Summary: Stiles knew, deep inside, that no one was coming. His dad wasn’t going to be able to find him, Scott had other things to worry about, and the rest of their friends walk on Scott’s side more than Stiles’. Sure, they cared about him and would fight for him if they had to, but in a choice between helping him or helping Scott, there really wasn’t a choice at all. So. He was alone. And he was pretty sure he was going to stay that way.Which meant, of course, that he had to get out of this on his own. And that was fantastic, the only squishy, breakable human of a werewolf pack versus a coven of witches hellbent on getting information out of him.***
Relationships: Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 6
Kudos: 127





	if you need me (i’ll be right there)

Stiles knew, deep inside, that no one was coming. His dad wasn’t going to be able to find him, Scott had other things to worry about, and the rest of their friends walk on Scott’s side more than Stiles’. Sure, they cared about him and would fight for him if they had to, but in a choice between helping him or helping Scott, there really wasn’t a choice at all. So. He was alone. And he was pretty sure he was going to stay that way.

Which meant, of course, that he had to get out of this on his own. And that was  _ fantastic_, the only squishy, breakable human of a werewolf pack versus a coven of witches hellbent on getting information out of him.

Chances were looking good, obviously.

They had intercepted him while he was walking out of the Preserve, herbs for Deaton in hand and trying to remember where he had parked the Jeep.

He felt a blow to the side of his head, saw the world swirling in shades of green and blue before his vision went completely black.

The next thing he remembered was waking up tied to the base of a huge tree, facing a clearing. Not the Nemeton, thankfully, but no less impressive in size.

He didn’t know what he was expecting when a voice spoke up from somewhere to his right, but it wasn’t for the face of Lydia to come into his view.

The resemblance was almost uncanny, but this Lydia was wearing a ring that Stiles had never seen before. And considering he used to be somewhat of a Lydia expert, he decided to trust his brain this time when it told him this wasn’t the Lydia he knew.

He was proven correct when she started to talk again, demanding that he tell them the weaknesses of each pack member.

Lydia would already know that, of course.

But it didn’t stop there, oh no, soon the little clearing was full of familiar faces, and each person was like a little stab in the heart.

Isaac, Derek, Kira, Malia, his dad,  _Scott_.

_Allison_.

Which was bordering, if not crossing over, the line of absolute cruelty.

Because look, some part of Stiles knew that it wasn’t really his fault that Allison died. But that part was small, insignificant, overshadowed by the all-encompassing  _ guilt _ he felt.

If he had been stronger, could he have fought the Nogistune’s control? If he could’ve closed the door any faster, would Allison still have been stabbed?

Scott and Allison had the same darkness around _their_ hearts as he did, but they were able to fight off any and all evil fox demons in  their  heads. Why couldn’t he? Stiles couldn’t even use the werewolf excuse because,  _ hello_, Allison was a human.

So all of his friends and family were there, standing in a circle, but it really wasn’t them at all. Just copies.

He had to remember that.

But it got harder as the hours wore on and the initial differences he had spotted between the copies and the real thing had faded, blurred.

The ring on Lydia’s finger could now only be seen if the light hit it just right, and though he knows the part in Malia’s hair is wrong, at times Stiles can’t remember which side it was supposed to be on.

The worst was Scott, though. Everything was spot-on, from the slant of his jaw to the curl of his hair. It was only the look in his eyes that wasn’t the usual trademarked Scott McCall Sparkle.

When the real Scott talks to  _ anyone_, there’s a genuine happiness that can’t be faked. Scott is truly happy to be giving his attention to whoever’s speaking to him because Scott is just that  _ good  _ of a person.

 _ This _ Scott, this... _ copy_, does not have the same spark. When he talks, his brown eyes are flat, almost glossy in their boredom.

When everything else looks identical, Stiles has come to depend on that to differentiate. Because Stiles doesn’t think that  _ anyone  _ could match his best friend’s sparkle.

***

It’s been at least a few days now. So maybe someone was looking for him. Stiles hoped so, because he didn’t know where he was and didn’t really have a great plan to get out.

He had the beginnings of one, but it was half-baked at best. And though he usually thrived on having plans like that, he didn’t think it was quite going to cut it this time.

He was aware that he probably looked a fair sight. The blood he had felt dripping down his face when he first woke up had long since dried.

The witches were brutal as well. He hadn’t given them anything of importance, obviously, and they didn’t take too kind to that. A slap to the face from Not-Lydia, her ring cutting into his cheekbone and leaving a long gash that hopefully wouldn’t scar. A punch straight to the mouth from Not-Derek that made Stiles have to relocate his jaw with a concerning  _ crunch._

He was gonna look real pretty coming out of this.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than Gerard. He was leaning towards worse, for a variation of reasons, but at least it was better in the fact that the witches didn’t have anyone else like Gerard had Erica and Boyd.

It was just him.

***

At this point, Stiles hadn’t eaten in a long while. He couldn’t quantify the number of days exactly, but the witches had only given him some water now and again. No food.

Now, Stiles was a lean guy. He had gained some needed muscle running with the wolves, so to speak, but he was nowhere near the word  _ big_. Specifically, his wrists were almost weirdly thin. He had long fingers, he knew, because Isaac had sometimes called him  _ Jack Skellington _ through fake coughs behind his back. Therefore, when he shifted his arms in an effort to regain some feeling in his hands, he was only sort of surprised to feel the ropes shift.

He decided to wait a bit, for a time where the witches would all eventually tire of him for the day and leave him alone, still tied to the tree.

A few hours later, and no shortage of fiddling and boredom either, Stiles was in that time.

He carefully shifted his wrists back and forth, feeling the ropes give a little. He considered this, then decided that there was no point in  _ not  _ trying to free himself in any way possible. He moved his hands, attempting to unravel the knot of rope that held him there.

The scratch of the rope on his skin had him gritting his teeth, knowing that the sight was not going to be pleasant if he managed to free himself. Maybe it’ll match his face.

There was a sharp bite as the rope dug into his skin hard enough to bleed, and he took a deep breath before pulling his hands apart in one final tug.

The rope slid off, the blood becoming a lubricant to the cause.

Stiles was sure that he didn’t have much time, some sort of monitoring or alarm device set up to alert the witches of his freedom, so he trusted his gut and chose a direction to run in.

His gut took him west, the direction where the sun was beginning to set.

He ran that way for a long while before slowing to a walk, hoping that he’d put enough distance between him and the witches.

His wrists ached and continued to bleed and his face felt like he’d gone ten rounds with an MMA fighter.

Stiles was still in the forest, but he could see the edge of it, and a road just after that. It looked like the main road into Beacon Hills from where he was, so he was hoping for the best as he made his way through the trees.

He made it to the edge of the tree line, and realized that it  _was_ the main road. The  _ Welcome To Beacon Hills  _ sign was about twenty feet up the road from where he was, so he started to walk along the side, closer to the trees than the concrete.

It was almost pitch black out and he was exhausted by the time he made it to his neighborhood, and honestly just wanted to fall asleep.

He didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d been taken, but he hoped his dad wasn’t too worried.

Also, he hoped Deaton had found some else to get his herbs since Stiles was pretty sure the ones that he had gathered were on the ground somewhere in the Preserve.

And maybe someone had found his phone—he’d lost too many of those as it was.

As he walked up the driveway towards the front door, he realized that most of the lights were off, meaning his dad was on the late shift and wasn’t home yet.

He stumbled up the stairs and into his bedroom, not even bothering to change before falling into bed.

He closed his eyes, but his head ached, and though he was well past the brink of exhaustion, sleep wasn’t coming easily.

He groaned into the quiet of his room and shoved his face into his pillow. Stiles was sure with all the dirt and blood caking his skin that his bed linens were gonna need to be washed in the morning.

He lied there for awhile, his thoughts alternating between running a hundred miles an hour and going blissfully silent.

He should really give his dad a call, but that required movement and a will to make it down the stairs to the house phone.

Stiles finally fell into a fitful sleep,dreams filled with the faces of his family but two degrees off.

When he woke up it was almost starting to be light again, the sun just barely peaking up over the horizon.

He could hear movement downstairs and forced himself to get up. He’s been wearing the same clothes for a long time, and he could see how bad his wrists looked in full clarity now.

They were almost a rainbow, with mottled bruises of blue, green, and yellow, covered in shades of red and brown. In short, they were a sight to behold. He pulled his flannel sleeves down to his knuckles in an attempt to hide it.

He decided checking out the possible break-in was more important than his appearance and carefully, quietly made his way down the stairs. 

He walked into the kitchen and saw the fridge open, the back of a Sheriff’s uniform in front of it.

Stiles knocked quietly on the doorframe leading to the kitchen, aware that his father would not hesitate to take down an unknown person in his house.

His dad swung around, face tired and brows drawn. He seemed to take in the sight of his son, clothes wrinkled and dirty, face bloody.

“Whoa, son, what the hell happened?” He took a few steps forward, looking almost scared to reach out and touch.

Stiles was taken aback. This...was not the reaction he was anticipating.

Multiple thoughts were circling but one stuck out the most. “Wait,  _ what_? Hold on. What time is it? Or, better yet, what day is it?” Stiles demanded.

“What? Stiles, are you—“

“Just answer me, Dad!”

“Uh, it’s Thursday. The eleventh, I think. Are you gonna explain what in god’s name happened to you now?”

But Stiles didn’t hear anything past  _ Thursday_. He stumbled back into the wall. “No, no, no. That’s not—that’s not possible. It was Wednesday the day I went into the Preserve, it’s literally not possible for it to be Thursday. I was gone for— _ for days_. Oh my god, no wonder no one came for me. No one even knew I was  _ gone_—“

Stiles was steadily working himself into a panic attack, and the sudden hands on his shoulders only brought harm where they used to bring comfort.

All Stiles could think of was the badge being the wrong shade of silver, his Not-Dad grilling him for information on Malia and Derek and  _ Scott_.

He quickly stepped out of his dad’s reach, and tripped out the front door, ignoring the worried calls of his name from behind him.

He ran the few blocks it was to Scott’s house, uncaring about the fact that it was probably only a few minutes past dawn and that he was covered in blood. Distantly, he hoped no one called the Sheriff’s Department on him. He needed someone he could rely on or he was going to break down.

He reached the house and knocked furiously on the door, praying to anyone listening above that Melissa was still working at the hospital.

The door opened a few moments later to reveal a sleep-mussed Scott, hair a mess and eyes bleary.

Stiles watched those eyes grow twice the size as they took in his appearance. Arguably, the smart thing would’ve been to shower and change before coming over since Scott was probably just assaulted with the pungent smell of blood. However, Stiles was on a mission and such trivial things weren’t worth the wasted time.

“Stiles, what the hell—“

“No, shut up, what day is it?” Stiles interrupted, shoving past Scott to get into his house. He might feel bad about that later but until then, he was sticking to his almost-rampage. He had to be certain.

“What? Why does that matter? Seriously, what happened to—“

“Scott, I swear to god, if you do not tell me what day it is I will chain you to the radiator and leave you there, werewolf powers be damned. Answer the fucking question.”

Scott had an expression on his face that Stiles was used to, a mix of concern, exasperation, a touch of annoyance, and—wait, what was that? Stiles was taken aback by the thought that it sort of resembled the look his dad would have whenever he used to stare at Stiles’ mom.

Okay, no. Not the time to analyze  that.

“Uh, it should be Thursday, I think, I just got off work a few hours ago. Deaton had me working on some extra protection for Beacon Hills. I thought you’d just gone home, but apparently not? Stiles, tell me what happened.”

_ Thursday, Thursday, Thursday—_

It literally wasn’t possible. Stiles had been tied to that tree for  _ days_.

He collapsed onto the couch, Scott trailing not far behind. Stiles shoved his hands through his hair, which unfortunately brought Scott’s attention to the mess that was his wrists.

Scott’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he reached out and lightly grabbed Stiles’ wrist. Stiles winced a little as Scott’s finger made contact with one of the deeper cuts, and Scott looked like he was about to cry.

“Stiles.  _ Please_. Tell me what happened.”

“I—just—give me a moment, I think I’m going insane. It’s Thursday?  _ Thursday_? You’re absolutely certain? It should be, like, Sunday. Or Monday. Of  _ next  _ week. I was there for  _ days_, Scott,  _ days_. I need this all to be a joke, or a dream, or  _ something_. This can’t be  _real_.”

Stiles hadn’t even managed to bring himself all the way down from his first almost-panic attack, and he could feel his heartbeat start to raise again. The pain in his head spiked, and Scott’s eyes were suddenly dead, glassy and empty, then Stiles blinked hard and the concerned look was back. Scott reached out, probably aiming for his shoulder or the side of his head, but Stiles jerked back, too caught up in the differences between Scott and Not-Scott.

His limbs flailed as he jerked and just about fell off the couch. There was a ringing in his ears that he hadn’t noticed until now, and Scott’s voice suddenly started to ring through the haze.

“—iles, whoa, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. You’re safe, you’re here with me in my house, and we’re sitting on the couch. I need you to breathe with me, okay? Stiles, can you do that?” Scott was now holding onto his shoulders, still not as comforting as it should be when all Stiles could think of was Not-Scott.

Nonetheless, Stiles gasped for breath as he nodded, not even aware that he’d been holding it in.

“Okay, count with me. Breathe in for one, two, three, four, hold for one, two, three, four, five, six, breathe out for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Now repeat; breathe in for one, two, three...”

Scott did this a few more times and slowly, but surely, Stiles started taking in normal breaths of air.

There were tears in his eyes that Stiles didn’t dare let fall, so he quickly rubbed a hand over his face and let out a shaky sigh.

“Sorry, just. It’s been—It’s been a rough few days. Or apparently, a few hours. Which isn’t possible, because I watched it become night and day at  _ least  _ three times over.” His voice was rough, grating like sandpaper.

His heartbeat was starting to race again, and Scott quickly shushed him, grabbing his wrist once more.

Stiles watched black veins crawl up Scott’s arm, and when Scott winced he pulled his arm away.

“Hey, no, none of that. I’m—I’m gonna be fine, you don’t need to cause pain for yourself.” Stiles told him, eyebrows coming together in the middle.

“Stiles, you’re like, seriously hurt. I’m considering taking you to the hospital at this point, but you gotta tell me what happened first. Actually, now. Right now.” Scott was teetering on the edge of his Alpha Voice, and though it had no affect on Stiles, he knew that Scott was getting serious in that  _ oh-god-packmate-hurt  _ sort of way.

Stiles almost didn’t know where to start, but he began with gathering the herbs for Deaton and walking back to his Jeep, then the Stiles-napping.

He recalled waking up tied to the huge-ass tree, then being interrogated by the Lydia-lookalike and the rest of their friends. He couldn’t make eye-contact with Scott while talking about Not-Scott, but he explained how the copy had told him about their coven and how they wanted to take over Beacon Hills in order to take the power of the Nemeton, since their magic was dying out due to some ritual they had performed.

He went on to talk about the cycle of the last three or four days, from waking up after falling unconscious every night to the continued questions and beat downs.

He finally explained his escape, about the rope cutting into his wrists as he tried to unravel them and the somewhat painful run in a random direction, hoping to find a road or a known landmark.

“But I escaped  _ yesterday_. I went home and slept for a couple hours before I heard my dad come home, and then  _ he  _ told me it was Thursday and I kinda lost my shit and came here. I just don’t understand how time could move so differently. I hate to pin it down to magic, because it sounds so stupid, but I literally don’t have any other theories. Unless I’m dreaming, imagining this all. We know it’s happened before.”

Stiles was pulling on his own hands, pinching the skin and staring at the white-pink of the mark he left. Scott had stayed pretty silent through his explanation, but his own fists were clenching in barely-concealed rage. Stiles dared to look up at his face and saw the set of Scott’s uneven jaw, the one that meant business. But Stiles was far more focused on the eyes.

But then Scott closed them, presumably in an effort to calm himself down, and Stiles moved before he could think it through.

“Wait, please, just—keep them open. I—the witch, the one who impersonated you, couldn’t get the eyes right. It looked exactly like you, like everyone, but there was always just one small thing off that I had to cling to. Yours was—yours was the eyes. She _couldn’t get the eyes right _ . ” Stiles was grasping at Scott’s jaw, his thumbs resting on the tops of Scott’s cheekbones.

Scott looked blown away, and Stiles was sure that if anyone could see them—Stiles, bloody, dirty, as messed up as he could be, clutching Scott, clean-shaven, soft tan skin, and fluffy hair—they’d probably call the police.

Scott lightly reached up, laying his fingers over Stiles’ hands and rubbing the backs of them with his thumbs.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m right here. It’s me, I swear, and I’m not gonna go anywhere. My eyes are right here.” Scott spoke with such sincerity that the even the cheesiest words could sound totally genuine.

Then Scott continued, “Why don’t we go and clean you up? I’ll text your dad that you’re staying here and you can shower and borrow a change of clothes. Okay?”

Stiles nodded, slowly, a little unsure of everything that was happening now but knowing that he could trust Scott to make the correct decisions when Stiles’ brain was too out of sorts.

Scott carefully pulled away from Stiles’ touch and stood up, then reached out and pulled Stiles off of the couch. Stiles wasn’t aware of how tired he still was, so hyped up on frantic adrenaline, and he stumbled on the first step towards the stairs.

Scott caught him, like always, like they always have and always will do for each other, and wrapped an arm around Stiles’ waist to help him get up to the bathroom.

They made it to the shower in one piece, but Stiles’ legs were about five seconds away from giving out beneath him.

Scott seemed to sense this, and set him on the edge of the tub. “I’m going to grab you a set of clothes, alright? I’ll be right back. I think you’re gonna need some help cleaning up.”

Stiles nodded, if a little reluctantly, but only because he hated when other people had to take care of him.

Scott was true to his word and was back just a few minutes after walking out, clothes and a fresh towel in hand.

“I texted your dad, told him I had you and that he didn’t have to worry. You should really talk to him soon, though.”

“Yeah, I know. I will. Thanks for telling him. I’m actually not even sure where my phone ended up. Or the Jeep, for that matter.”

“It’s okay, we can find them later today. Let me clean up your face first, then you can wash the rest of your body and take a nap before you collapse.” Scott set down the clothes and towel, then reached under the sink for the first-aid kit that Melissa insisted they keep there.

“I’m not gonna make you go to the hospital, but that means you’re gonna have to let me patch up that gash on your cheek and the one on the side of your head,” Scott told him, voice stern.

Stiles just nodded, and stayed quiet as Scott gathered the necessary tools and equipment from the kit.

He was a little shocked when Scott had Stiles spread his knees a little, still sitting on the edge of the tub. He stood in the  v  of Stiles’ thighs and carefully tilted Stiles’ head to the left. Scott grabbed the washcloth and ran it under some warm water, wringing it out before bringing it up to the cut that ran from Stiles’ temple to the middle of his cheek.

He worked slowly, methodically, wiping along the edges and turning the white cloth a deep red-brown. 

Stiles stayed still, only wincing when Scott hit a particularly deep section. Scott seemed to be even gentler after that, like he didn’t want to even  _ consider _doing any more damage to Stiles’ face.

Scott finished cleaning the cut, then put a bit of antibacterial cream on a butterfly bandage. He tilted Stiles’ head a little more, then placed the bandage on, smoothing the sticky parts down with his finger.

He did this for the gash on the side of Stiles’ head, and a few of the other slightly deeper cuts on his face, using gauze and medical tape for his head wounds.

Scott was a gentle soul by nature, but Stiles didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend so  _ concerned_. Scott used soft hands and soft words to explain what he was was doing while patching up Stiles’ face, like he was trying not to startle him.

He helped Stiles remove his flannel, then the t-shirt he had beneath that. Stiles’ chest looked marginally better than his face, the cuts and bruises almost working to connect the dozens of moles that lived on his body.

Scott’s eyes seemed to flash red for a moment before he swallowed and steeled himself, like he was forcing himself to calm down.

Stiles stood up shakily and removed the tattered jeans he was wearing, the faded blue now covered in varying shades of brown. Whether it was dirt or blood or even a mixture of the two, Stiles couldn’t tell.

Now left only in his boxers, Stiles decided to keep them on considering he was probably going to need some of Scott’s help to shower, specifically to make sure none of the scratches on his back from the tree were too terrible.

Stiles stepped into the shower and kept his newly-bandaged face away from the stream of water, using the other washcloth that Scott handed him to scrub at his skin. He honestly just wanted the blood off, screw trying to keep it gentle.

But Scott really wasn’t having that, and Stiles could only watch in a state of disbelief as a growl came from the back of the werewolf’s throat and he quickly stripped out of his sleep shirt and basketball shorts.

Now also only in boxers, Scott opened the shower door and grabbed the washcloth out of Stiles’ shock-stilled hand with a singleminded focus Stiles hadn’t seen from him since Allison was still alive.

Scott took some of the non-scented, easy-on-the-sensitive-werewolf-skin-and-nose soap that sat on the shelf in the shower and poured some onto the cloth.

He turned Stiles around with a hand on the waist, and Stiles was too shocked to protest.

Stiles felt his eyes flutter closed as Scott ran the cloth down his back, then up over his shoulders and down the sides of his arms. He was using just enough pressure to get the dirt and grime off, but not nearly as hard as Stiles had been scrubbing.

The washcloth was soft from use, and Stiles almost laughed from the ticklish sensation when Scott ran it over the skin of his ribs, down the side of his body towards the jut of his hip. Scott was now standing very close to him, his back being brushed by Scott’s chest. Scott’s nose was almost in the crook of Stiles’ neck, and the urge to tilt his head and give him access was surprising, if not almost automatic.

Stiles was about to say something, maybe to kill the tension that he was sure they could both feel, when Scott suddenly turned him around to face each other. Scott was still sliding the washcloth over pinked skin, and he made eye contact with Stiles right as the cloth brushed over his nipple.

The jolt it sent through his body felt electric, and Stiles couldn’t stop the almost-whimper sound that bubbled up and out of his mouth if he wanted to. He closed his eyes in mortification, feeling the blush run hot and heavy over his cheeks.

The answering slight-growl was a shock to him, and he opened his eyes slightly to see that Scott’s pupils were blown, irises tinged slightly red in what seemed to be  arousal.

Before Stiles could question it, Scott ran the washcloth over his other nipple and the words suddenly died on his tongue. The moan that came from his mouth left nothing to the imagination, and Scott suddenly dropped the washcloth.

Stiles thought that Scott had maybe come back to his senses and saw what they were doing, the realization that it was no longer just a _bro helping his bro_ in the shower.

But then Scott leaned down to slant his  _ mouth  _ over Stiles’ nipple, and Stiles had to lean his head against the tiled wall to keep his balance. Nothing had ever felt so  _ good_. Stiles couldn’t stop the choked-off gasps coming from his own lips, lost in the mind-numbing pleasure as Scott continued to mouth and bite at Stiles’ nipples and chest.

And then, quickly as it started, it stopped, and Scott gasped as he wrenched himself away from Stiles’ body.

Stiles didn’t know how many seconds passed as they stared at each other, the water still running and both breathing heavily.

Then Scott seemed to make a decision. He set his jaw, then took a step forward. Stiles was already backed against the wall, so there was nowhere to go from here. Scott took another step and was suddenly holding him against the wall of the shower, chest to chest, and Scott carefully reached up to cradle Stiles’ jaw yet again.

It was like Scott was looking for something in Stiles’ expression, and he seemed to find it as he took in the multiple colors that made up Stiles’ skin at that moment.

He then nodded, though Stiles didn’t know whether it was for him or the man’s own self, and the next thing he knew was Scott’s lips being pressed to his.

It took him a second to get over the absolute shock of everything happening at the moment, but then he kissed back with a fervor that rivaled Scott’s easily, falling into a comfortable rhythm after a few seconds of figuring out which way each preferred to tilt their head.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Scott’s waist, trying to pull him closer. Scott didn’t seem to have any issues with that, and suddenly the half-hardness that Stiles had been at was shot to full when their hips were pressed together, dicks rubbing against each other through two layers of boxer shorts. Both groaned into each other’s mouths.

The kiss turned almost desperate, Scott conveying relief and happiness through the connection and Stiles answering with gratitude, for cleaning and caring for him.

They’ve never needed words to communicate, not since they were ten years old, and by now they had long since memorized each other’s body language and facial expressions.

Scott was soft but solid in a way that perfectly counteracted the lean lines of Stiles’ physique, and Scott had always let Stiles cut into him when his edges became too sharp to handle alone.

Likewise, Stiles kept Scott going even when his mind and body were two steps and a thought away from breaking down, steadying him in the way that he’d always done but Scott had somehow forgotten when Allison came into the picture.

It wasn’t some huge revelation with swarms of butterflies when they kissed—it felt like coming home, like the feeling of cool wind in their hair and grass beneath their feet, or sitting connected from shoulder to hip to ankle, keeping warm whenever the Jeep broke down on the side of the road.

Kissing Scott felt  _ right  _ in a way that Stiles hadn’t felt since before the Nogistune.

Scott suddenly shifted his hips, causing friction where friction was definitely needed.

Stiles reached a hand down and pulled Scott’s dick out of his boxers, using the excess water and soap as a lubricant as he quickly made a loose circle with his fingers, jerking Scott off at the best angle he could find considering their position.

Scott groaned when Stiles’ thumb flicked over a spot just below the head, and separated their mouths enough to lay his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder.

Scott then reached down with his own hand and pulled Stiles out from the waistband of his shorts, and Stiles nearly came right there and then when Scott’s mouth made its way down to bite at his collarbone.

Both were letting out shaky breaths, groans and low curses falling out of their mouths like a prayer.

Stiles was already strung out and exhausted before this, so it didn’t take long for Scott’s warm hand to coerce him into coming, but Scott followed half a dozen strokes after that.

They both panted for breath as the water continued to stream down Scott’s back. Then Scott looked up at Stiles and smiled a lopsided smile, genuine happiness in his eyes, and Stiles couldn’t help but grin back.

And though they still had lost phones and witches to deal with, and cuts and bruises to attend to, Stiles knew at that moment that no one in the world could ever replace Scott, and that anything that happened would be dealt with by the both of them. Together.

_  
end. _

**Author's Note:**

> well, i bit the bullet. finally decided to post one of my older teen wolf works. i wrote this a few years ago, so it’s (hopefully) not as good as i could write now. first fic on ao3 though, and while it’s not perfect, i hope you enjoyed it regardless!
> 
> title: from “if you need me” by julia michaels
> 
> twitter: https://twitter.com/dysabria  
> tumblr: dysabria
> 
> ~ezza


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